She’s arguing with someone. Melkin, most likely. I frown as her voice carries clearly through the thick oaks and mossy undergrowth. It’s not like her to forget how to move quietly.

Her oversight works to my advantage, though, and I brace myself for the climb down when she and a young man about my age enter the small clearing at my feet. He walks close to her, his left hand hovering behind her back as if he wants to touch her but isn’t sure of his welcome. I assess him quickly. About six feet. Ropy muscles on a lithe frame. Olive skin, dark eyes and hair, leather laces holding his tunic and pants in place. A Tree Person. I don’t know how he came to be with Rachel, but the way his eyes watch her with interest and concern make me want to send him back to his village.

Immediately.

Melkin isn’t with her. Either he succumbed to one of the dangers in the Wasteland, or he tried to fulfill his assignment, and Rachel killed him.

I study Rachel next, and shock punches a little frisson of panic through me. Her pale skin is smudged with what looks like ash. Her cloak is torn and battered. And her hands. Her hands are covered in dirt and dried blood, and she clutches a long black metal walking stick like it’s going to disappear if she lets go.

But worst of all is the look on her face. Cold. Fierce. Empty. Like someone snuffed out the Rachel I knew and sent out a hollow shell in her place. I hang on to the branch for another moment, trying to adjust to this new Rachel before I have to drop down and show her the shock written across my face.

“We need rest,” her companion says.

“Then rest. I’m going on.”

“You haven’t eaten today. You’ve barely slept. If you keep this up, you’ll collapse, and then what good will all this progress do you?” He asks, but his tone sounds genuinely curious instead of worried or upset. Like he’s fine with allowing her the freedom to destroy herself as long as she’s given the matter proper thought. In light of the facts he’s just presented, my tone would’ve indicated a good shaking was in store for her if she didn’t listen to common sense and take care of herself.

She doesn’t respond to his invitation for self-reflection. Instead, she strides beneath my tree, her course set north, and acts like she can’t hear him. He follows her. I let them both walk past me. My first meeting with this Tree Person isn’t going to be me awkwardly trying to climb down a tree without hurting my rib. They’re four trees up when I grasp the branch I’m on and ready myself for a painful landing.

A slight movement in the corner of my eye arrests my motion, and I hold myself still as a man in green and brown, a dagger in his fist, melts out of the shadows between the trees and silently follows Rachel and her companion.

The Rowansmark tracker.

Rachel must have the package. Or he thinks she does. And he’s going to kill her to get it.

Except he didn’t bargain on me.

He’s approaching my tree. Five steps and he’ll be here. I’ll only have one chance to get it right.

Best Case Scenario: I kill him on my first try.

Worst Case Scenario: I miss, and never get another chance.

Best Case Scenario it is, then. Quickly assessing angles, momentum, and how much damage I can do without drawing my sword, I wait for him to walk directly below me, let go of my branch, and jump.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

LOGAN

He senses me and turns, but he’s too late. I slam into him, wrap my hands around his throat, and drive both of us onto the ground.

Pain explodes through my ribcage on impact, and I nearly lose my grip. He whips his arms up and claps them against my ears, disorienting me. I’m dizzy, unable to draw a complete breath, and losing focus fast.

Digging my thumbs into his windpipe, I will myself to hang on. He bucks beneath me and catches me in the ribs with an elbow. Agony sears through me, and my hands slip. Knocking my hands away from his throat, he throws me onto the ground beside him, pulls a knife, and looms over me.

I can’t breathe. Can barely move. I’m going to die if I don’t figure out a way to get the upper hand. Fast.

His knife arm goes up, and his eyes lock on mine, but before I can react, an arrow sinks into the narrow space between his eyes with a soft thud. He shudders, his body sags, and I scoot to the side as he crashes to the ground.

Someone whistles softly from a tree behind me, a near-perfect imitation of a blackbird, but I can’t look. I can’t bear to move. I can hardly bear to breathe. Soft footsteps hit the forest floor and come toward me. In seconds, a girl about Rachel’s age with olive skin and a long dark braid kneels beside me, a black bow in her hands.

“Did you get him?” Rachel asks from somewhere to my left, and now I understand why she was being unnecessarily loud.

It was a trap. A trap that worked. I want to give her kudos for planning ahead, but I can’t seem to get enough air to speak.

“Two of them?” the man asks.

“This one jumped out of the tree and tried to kill the tracker. I decided not to shoot him.”

I’m grateful. I hope she knows that. Pain sears my chest again, and I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and try to will it away.

“Who is he?” the man asks.

Another set of soft footsteps approaches, and someone drops to the ground next to me. “Logan?”

I open my eyes. Rachel crouches beside me, her glorious red hair lit with fire from the sun, her blood-stained hands hovering above me as if afraid to touch me, and her blue eyes so wounded, I want to hold her until some of her pain recedes. I lift my hand and press it against her cheek. She trembles.